Three Wishes
by TheMadKatter13
Summary: Just because John /can/ doesn't mean he will. Not in the way that's expected of him, any way. Johnlock


**I was watching Aladdin yesterday, and though I should be pounding out my NaNo right now, I couldn't let this idea go and had to pound it out instead real quick. This will be my last post for the next month (unless I'm doing really well with my NaNo project), so I hope you enjoy.**

**Originally posted to AO3 on 2014-11-01 and forgot to cross-post.**

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><p>When John was young and foolish, a good soldier and a better doctor, he developed a love for gambling. Unfortunately, he was not so good at that as he was at his other professions. He eventually came up against a shaman, and when he lost, and he was unable to pay his losses, the man cursed him.<p>

_"Never again shall you be able to turn down the desires of another."_

Darkness had rushed upon him, and when he had woken, it was with bands around his ankles, wrists, and neck, and his new home was the belly of a burnished gold lamp. The shaman had been his first master, had explained to him that whomsoever should lay hands on his lamp shall be granted three wishes with the exception of love, killing, and resurrection.

The shaman had then wished for 'untold riches', and John had manifested endless gold bars... on the ceiling above the man. His captor had died, crushed under the weight of his gree, but his death did nothing to release the new djinn from his curse. He passed from hand to hand, granting wishes to those who deserved them, and playing up the technicalities of wordings of those who did not. Masters and mistresses came and went, as did time and the world around him. John watched it all from his owner's side and from within his lamp, desiring more than anything the granting of his own wish: freedom.

**.oOo.**

It came to pass that, one day, John's lamp fell, quite literally, into the hand's of a curious young boy by the name of Sherlock Holmes. As usual, John appeared, announced his attentions, and waited. But the young boy was more interested in how such a being could fit into a little prison. Hours, and hundreds of scientific questions and proddings and note-takings later, John was having a grand time. The best time he'd had in centuries. He'd never met such an intelligent person before, much less one so young. He continued to wait for the child to make his three demands, wanting to provide him with all he desired, but all he desired it seemed he already had. Feeling like he had a bit of a rest for the first time since he'd been young and human himself, John eagerly relaxed into the unexpected companionship.

Then one day, John was roused from slumber by the sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by the pounding of feet before the bedroom door slammed shut. Well used to the dramatics of his young master, he took his time stretching and massaging out the shoulder wounded by another shaman who had been displeased by the manner in which John had granted his wish. Without warning, his lamp was picked up roughly and shaken as the little boy holding it called to him with a tight voice that greatly alarmed the djinn.

He emerged in a rush, asking, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

He had only just taken in the state of the boy's red eyes, his hair in disarray, his clothes rumbled and frayed, when the boy spoke again.

"I wish for a friend!" he shouted, tears falling from his eyes. John's heart broke and he reached out to comfort his his young companion, only for Sherlock to duck away and fling the burnished gold lamp across the room. "Now!"

Saddened by the harsh dismissal, but understanding its reason, John said, "As you wish, Master," and disappeared.

He searched the world seven times over for the perfect companion for the human he held in the highest regard one could be held in, but he found none. Somehow, in all of the planet's inhabitants, there was not one who was suitable as a companion for his little master. It was the first time in his life as a djinn that John could not grant a wish, and he went back with a heavy heart and empty hands.

Sherlock had been waiting, perched on the side of his bed and cradling John's lamp carefully in his palms. His expression when John appeared was tearfully hopeful. But when the djinn told him that he could not grant his wish, the expression fell away, leaving only blankness in its path. Seconds later, his lamp went flying out the window as Sherlock screamed, "I'm erasing you and I never want to see you again!"

John was so heart-broken by the loss of his best and closest friend that, for the next few masters worth of wishes, he examined their worth and granted their wishes with a previously unknown listlessness. He no longer had the will to perform his assigned duties, but that in no way released him from his obligations. For a brief time, he'd been able to entertain the idea that he wouldn't be left to weather time alone, but such was the power of shamans, even those long dead. John would never be free of his curse.

**.oOo.**

New hands with an unusual tang of familiarity were picking him up, and John emerged from his lamp, barely mustering the energy to deliver his usual speech. His one failure, and the loss of his one friend, had never ceased to haunt him through masters and mistresses, and he was more weary of the yawning infinity ahead of him than he'd ever been.

"I wish for something to clear my mind of this tedium." The voice was slightly older, but he knew it. He knew the speech pattern, the accent, he knew...

"Sherlock?" The little boy he had known had sprouted like a weed, had grown into a willowy young man a hand taller than John had been and not yet to his second decade. The riot of curls remained the same, if a little less tame in this meeting that he was used to, and the same sharp, stormy eyes. Then he took in his surroundings: two beds pushed against opposite walls, two desks, papers and books everywhere, and the experiments he had been used to covering a rickety table.

"Do you know me?" Sherlock asked, expression one of utmost disinterest. John's heart, momentarily elated, sunk.

"You came across my lamp as a child. Do you not... remember me?" he asked hesitantly. Perhaps Sherlock had been too young for the memories to stick. It didn't make the forgetance of the relationship he cherished most any less difficult to bear.

"I have deleted most memories from my childhood," the young man sniffed, turning away to peer through a strange contraption curled around a small glass square. "Now, will you grant my wish or not?"

Tears he didn't know he was still capable of prickling his eyes, John nodded. "As you wish, Master."

Over the years, John had seen many things that would accomplish what Sherlock was asking, but only one that seemed suitable. A syringe manifested in his palm, something he had seen through the years in use by doctors and pleasure-seekers alike, and he bowed as he presented it.

"One injection of this a day," he instructed as Sherlock picked the contraption out of his hand with a contemplative look. "It will refill itself every day at sunrise. It is best used when you are locked away, as it will leave you defenseless and vulnerable."

"What is it?" the young man asked, turning it over and over in his hands, peering at it with an intensity John had not seen in years. It made his heart ache.

"A seven percent solution of the extract of the coca plant, as is found in the Americas, as I believe they are now called." They had not been discovered when he was alive, but he had seen them often in his travels. The size of the world now compared to his human days never ceased to amaze him. "You simply inject it into the bloodstream, an act most often imposed on the veins of the inner elbow-"

"Yes yes, I know how it's done," Sherlock interrupted as he stripped off his belt and tied it around his bicep. John looked away when the needle pressed into delicate skin. He had seen the impact of recreational use of this medicine, and he feared his young master would fall into the same rut, but it was not in his place to refuse a wish. He had tried, _once_, the second time one was made of him. He had never tried resisting again.

When he finally turned back 'round, the syringe was out of sight and Sherlock's face was the picture of serenity. John hadn't noticed how tense it had been until it wasn't.

He sat and watched his one-time companion until well after the setting of the sun, and when new hands curled around his lamp and carried him off, taking him from Sherlock's room, he couldn't find it in himself to feel the loss. He couldn't feel it in himself to feel anything.

**.oOo.**

He was unsurprised and resigned when he felt familiar, long fingers curl around his lamp. He emerged as he always did, with a weary spiel, refusing to look at his thrice-master, and waited.

"Hello, John," a baritone voice greeted, the syllables warm and deep.

"Hello, Sherlock," he replied, unable to keep the tired out of his voice. Suddenly, his head snapped up and he looked over. A middle-aged man greeted him, this time with kempt hair, gleaming eyes, a barely-restrained smile, and a well-cut suit that belied his wealth. Last time he had seen his friend, the young man hadn't remembered him at all. And now- "You remember me?"

John felt faint as Sherlock nodded. "But last time-"

"I'm sorry," the man said, eyes dropping away and shoulders drawing up as he held his hands behind his back. "I lied back then. I remembered exactly who you were, I just... My mind was too discordant to care. I regret the direction of that meeting more than you'll ever know."

The djinn couldn't answer. He sat on the well-worn sofa, eyes taking in the room around him.

An animal skull on the wall was wearing headphones, a useful bit of technology owned by many of his previous masters and mistresses that delivered music from a small device directly into the ear. There was a fireplace and on the mantel sat a skull and a stack of papers stuck through with a knife. The kitchen contained a table and the device he remembered from their second meeting that he had learned from his previous master, a polite man called 'Mike', was called a 'microscope'. There were two opposing chairs and a long table and busy but nice wallpaper. And one, nervous, pacing Sherlock.

"How... how did you find me again?" was all he could think to ask.

"I had mentioned to Mike Stamford that I could not find a flatmate and he relinquished your lamp back to me." Sherlock's hands came back around to his front, and it was only then that John realised his lamp was still hanging from its handle on one, slim finger. The metal was cradled, the hold gentler than he would have imagined, and the grip was switched so one finger stroked along the right side, sending a shiver down John's right arm.

"You want me as a flatmate?" he asked, confused.

"Problem?" Sherlock replied, cocking an eyebrow and grinning.

**.oOo.**

Life at Sherlock's side was absolutely fascinating. John's lamp was kept in the pocket of the great coat the consulting detective, as Sherlock explained he was, always wore. They solved supernatural (and sometimes not) cases, caught criminals, cast spells, performed alchemy, laughed and ate together. The latter though was more for show as John didn't technically need to eat any more, but he had been a doctor as a human, and old habits, and new protectiveness, died hard.

As the days turned to weeks, and weeks into months, John slowly forgot the anxiety of awaiting the making a wish. Sherlock was brilliant, a scientist, a detective, a genius, who only wanted of John his companionship. Two years into their reunion, they defeated a particularly malevolent and manipulative sprite known as Moriarty that had developed an obsession with Sherlock, and afterwards, neither could seem to let the other go until they were safe in Baker Street.

John left Sherlock to shower and left to go make tea for the both of them. He was pouring the water in their cups when a tingle went through him, the one that signaled his current master was about to make a wish. The kettle clanged as it hit the floor and the djinn clutched at the counter, resisting the call.

"Sherlock?!" he shouted, clinging to the counter as if his life depended on it. And in a way, it did. "Sherlock, what are you doing?! If you make a third wish, I'll disappear from here!" The magic tugging at him became more insistent, demanding his presence, his compliance. "Sherlock! Please! _Please_ don't banish me again! SHERLOCK!"

_"I wish for John to be free."_

The words echoed around him, again and again swirling in his mind as the world around him began to turn to white. His body began to fade, his fingers where they clutched at the counter growing transparent.

"Sherlock, what have you done?!" he shouted, terrified. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and for the first time in his life, the unknown terrified him. He never wanted to spend another moment away from the genius, and yet, here he was, being torn away for the third time in his life for the person he loved most.

"SHERLOCK!"

**.oOo.**

His body was strangely heavy when he woke, and he found he lacked the ability to even raise his head, or his arm. There was a warmth along his side that burned him at the same time it comforted him, and he managed to open his eyes. Sherlock's ceiling met his eyes, and he frowned at it, unused to really seeing it like this. After several attempts, he managed to roll his head at the side, and if he could have, he would have jumped at seeing Sherlock's face right in front of his, cautious grey eyes meeting his.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Or rather, attempted too. His voice came out in a strange sort of croak, as if it were in a severe state of disuse. The memory of light, of vanishing, came back to him suddenly. "What did you do, Sherlock?" he managed to whisper.

"I wished for your freedom," the man replied, voice steady but wary.

"I don't understand. How am I still here if..." John trailed off as he realised he didn't feel the bands of gold around his ankles, wrists, and throat anymore. The gold had always been cold to the touch, as if reminding him endlessly of his eternal enslavement, but the bite of its touch was no longer present. Further, he began to realise how solid his body felt atop what must have been Sherlock's bed. Solid in a way he could only mimic in front of humans outside of Baker Street, but couldn't actually replicate. "Am I... Am I human again?" he whispered, tears prickling his eyes at the idea. He had wanted to be human again for so long, and he was terrified that Sherlock would say anything other than-

"Yes." Unbidden, tears spilled from his eyes and John valiantly attempted to stop himself from sobbing, only to fail spectacularly. His body was shifted onto its side, and gathered against another. His tears soaked through the man's shirt in no time, but John couldn't seem to stop.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't stop. I'm sorry," he babbled, his top arm moving in halting increments to wrap around the other man in turn. "Centuries, Sherlock. All I've wanted for centuries, and you're the only one who thought to give it to me." Slowly, his tears began to run low, and shudders continued to wrack his body, but his eyes grew dry, almost painfully so. Still, he was too afraid to face his friend after such a complete loss of control, and even remaining curled against his only friend's chest was more acceptable than facing him head on.

"I'll admit, my motives in this were not entirely unselfish," Sherlock said from above him, voice stiff like he was afraid of how John would react to what he was about to say. "True, I want your happiness more than anything, but I want almost as much for you to always remain by my side. Always."

For long moments, John forgot to breath. Finally, it came to his mind Sherlock's very first wish, the only one he had ever failed. "You know, I could never figure out how I couldn't fulfill that first wish you made of me. I've resisted granting wishes in the past, and I've always been punished for it. Painfully. But yours, I could never figure out why I wasn't."

"You have come to a conclusion then?" John couldn't keep his giggles contained at the unusually formal language.

"Yes, you git," he said through his laughter. He found that his arms at least could move, even if it was slow, hard work, and he swiped the wet from his eyes.

"I couldn't grant what I had already gifted," he murmured, cupping the strong jaw and delighting in the opportunity to finally touch it. Sherlock's eyes had gone wide and his body still, but that didn't stop John from tilting his chin up to press their lips together. "You already had me."

FIN

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading, please don't forget to drop by a Comment, and if you liked this, then you should check out MojoFlower's 'Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In)' (on AO3). You're all always welcome over at my author tumblr (themadkatter13-fanfiction), and I'll see y'all on the other side of NaNo~!<strong>


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